


What Happens Among the Gutters

by LegendaryStarCat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4737803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryStarCat/pseuds/LegendaryStarCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an artist inside of the warrior, and he's looking for someone to bring it out in the white space between the panels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Wednesday. The day you live for. Because, after all, it's new comic book day!

You head to your favorite comic store, a hole in the wall in the middle of the busy city. Inside, though dark and a little crammed, the store feels like a respite from the rest of the world. As you quietly browse the shelves of new single issues, bobbing your head to the quiet (but well chosen) music, you see a hand reach for a title you've read before.

"Oh," you say, completely without thinking. "You don't want to read that." It's a more recent Alan Moore title. You're not a big fan of Alan Moore to begin with, but his recent stuff has been absolutely atrocious. This title in particular, it's based off of some screenplay he wrote two decades ago; the writing is choppy, and the art is even worse. "If you have to read an Alan Moore title, try Watchmen or Promethea, maybe."

You blush at the realization of what you said and look up the arm to see a man nodding thoughtfully. Even behind the thick black frames of his glasses, he's stunningly handsome. A warm, squared, classically good-looking face with a chiseled jawline. Striking blue eyes stare at you between the streaks of light on his lenses.

"Oh god sorry, ignore me." You say, having trouble maintaining eye contact with his piercing, inquisitive stare.

"No, no, I..." he smiles; it quakes one end of his lips up first, the other end crawling after to catch up until your assaulting with a nice set of teeth (who's ever even said that in real life?, you think bashfully to yourself). "A friend told me I should look into Alan Moore. For comic book education. Why should I not read this?" He asks, and it's not a mean or pointed question, like a lot of guys in comic shops who accuse you of being a 'fake nerd girl' or some such bull crap; it's a question of pure curiosity.

"It's just a mess." You explain sheepishly. "The writing is sloppy and going for shock factor, but the 'shocking' topics are just dated." He nods, listening intently and he pulls from his coat pocket a small black notebook, leafing through pages till he finds the one he's looking for. He produces a pencil from the rings of a sketchbook that you didn't notice was tucked under his arm. "The art doesn't help the realizations at all. It's too scratchy, to hard to interpret if a character is attractive, what their gender is, and those are key parts of the storyline. Plus the gutters are a mess."

"Ah," he nods, "the white space between panels, right?"

You nod, enthused. "See, Watchmen played with gutters in a really unique way, so you can understand why this is such a disappointment."

He nods, and you seem him pencil down 'WATCHMEN' carefully in his notebook. "Thank you. Ah--" he seems at a loss. "I'm sorry, I don't think you mentioned your name?"

You blush madly and introduce yourself. He shakes your hand, a warm, firm grip, and grins those big teeth at you. "Thank you! And, nice to meet you. I'm...uh..." he pauses "Steve." He says his name quietly, like he's confiding to you a great secret.

You smile and nod, collecting your comics in your arms. Not quite wanting the conversation to end, you awkwardly continue, "are you an artist?" You nod to the sketchbook, protectively tucked under his very muscular arm.

His cheeks tinge just slightly. "Cartoonist, actually. Er, was. I'm not so sure now."

You smile, "why's that?"

"I'm not sure my stuff is modern enough...that part of why I'm looking for...a comic book education." He smiles a weaker grin.

"Well, if you want any suggestions, I'm your girl."

He beams like a child, all innocence and excitement. "You think I could pick your brain? Over coffee, my treat, since you saved me from reading a not-so-good book."

You try to calm yourself. This is pretty unbelievable. "Sure, Steve, that sounds great."

He follows you to the register, buying himself a copy of Watchmen, and noting carefully each title you buy. A classic run of Wonder Woman you picked up in trade piques his interest particularly.

"I remember this!"

You smile, thinking that was a bit of a weird thing to say, but shrug it off. "Yeah, it's some pretty revolutionary stuff. One of the first female superheroes, made by the guy who also created the lie detector and was in a polyamourous relationship."

Steve turns beet red at this. "Really? Even...back then?" You nod sagely. "Wow, I never knew!"

* * *

At the coffee shop, you discuss more comics, but eventually fall into tangents: music, movies, tv, books, magazines. He seems lost in a sea of pop culture, and admits to only having seen the original Star Wars trilogy a few weeks ago. You smile at this, and tell him it's fine, that everyone has their own pace. No shame.

Every once in a while he awkwardly, conspicuously adjusts his Yankees baseball cap, like he's trying to hide himself. It becomes an endearing impulse, and as you sip your drinks, you both reach for the muffin you were sharing. Your fingertips brush, and Steve blushes brightly, probably more brightly than you. You try to break the awkward moment.

"What kind of cartooning do you do?"

"Ah, hm," he pauses, munching to fill up the silence. "Political. Though they're not of much relevance now."

You nod. "Politics change so quickly, but..."

"Some of the themes never change." He finishes your sentence with a quick smile. You laugh and nod, while he continues, "I'm trying to do life drawing now. I...I think I want to try my hand at superheroes."

"Now that," you exclaim, "is super relevant. Were you hear during the whole...?" You trail off, not sure what to call it. Battle of New York? Destruction of the city?

He nods, looking down like he's ashamed.

"It was scary, wasn't it?" You put your hand on his comfortingly. "My apartment is over in Hell's Kitchen, so I was out of the crossfire, but ever since...with the Devil and whatnot, things seem to be getting a whole lot stranger."

He nods again, still silent.

You finally break his silence. "Have you started life drawing?"

He finally smiles, sheepishly. "I'm, uh, looking for the right model." You need, and his smile gains wattage. "I mean, would you...I don't mean to impose, but would you mind if I sketched you?"

You grin. "Don't go all Titanic on me." His face turns into a question mark at that reference. You shake your head and smile on. "Don't worry about it. I mean...sure. Here?"  
He nods. "Just your face." He blushes again. "You have great features. Really interesting planes."

You laugh. "Ok, flatterer. Just sit still?"

He nods. "You don't have to smile or anything. Just be you." You smile at him before he pulls out his sketchbook and pencil. Your face falls into its resting position, and Steve deftly sketches. His lines are heavy and confident at first, but soon soften to gentle details, things you've never even noticed about yourself.

After about 15 minutes of sketching, Steve modestly presents his sketchbook to you. The picture is beautiful, it looks like you, but not like the you you often see in the mirror--it's drawn without your eye that is so critical of the rest of you.

"Wow, is that really what I look like?"

Steve nods, smiling bashfully. "To me, at least."

You smile, so flattered by this handsome hulking man, who is so sheepish and gentle in personality. "I love it!"

He pauses. "I, ah, you're welcome to keep it....but only if I could draw you again sometime."

You feel your face flush. "I'd be happy to have you draw me again," you rise and move to his side of the table, "but you should keep this one." You lean down, and give him a peck on his clean shaven cheek. It's warm, and he smells like cedar and clean cotton.

He reddens again. "Thanks. I...how about tomorrow?"

"Your place?" You offer, a little forwardly.

Steve smiles back, a little shyly. "My place." He confirms.

Little did you know, you had a date with Captain America.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve's place is impeccably clean. Off puttingly so, when you compare him to your other male friends (but, to be fair, the guys you are friends with do clean up when they're trying to impress someone, so maybe that's what Steve is doing?).

He lives in a small, well appointed apartment tucked into a corner of the more government-y district of New York. It's a nice place, roomier than your apartment, and you figure Steve must have a pretty great day job to be able to pay the rent here and still make it to a comic store during 9 to 5 work hours. You let out a small wow, taking it all in.

"It's rent controlled." Steve says with an internal smirk, almost reading your mind as he lifts an arm, urging you into his home. You laugh awkwardly, although you're not sure what's so funny about that.

Steve is warm and courteous, same as he was when you met just yesterday. He offers you a drink before giving you a small tour of the open floored apartment, kitchen feeding into sitting room and hallway, which notably excludes his bedroom.

Once he's done showing you the space, he offers a chair by the window to you. "Good light." He says, nodding to the sun streaming through the curtainless glass. A small park sits across from the building.

The chair he sits you in is pristine, smooth lacquered wood with a soft blue and white striped cushion on the seat and a small, but generous red pillow resting against the back. It's almost too quaint.

His whole apartment has that feel. From the homespun wooden furniture to the touches of blue, red, and white to the graying sepia photos of proud men in military uniforms, it feels like an advertisement for "Americana" if ever you saw one.

And yet, somehow it fits perfectly with Steve, and his old fashioned not-trying-to-get-you-in-his-bedroom personality.

You sit and wet your lips before realizing you've barely said a word. You blush and laugh, "nice place. Did you do the decorating?"

Steve almost snorts, but demurely, as he picks up his sketchpad and a charcoal pencil. "A...friend picked out the furniture. And the color scheme. The photos are all mine, though." When saying that, his voice is proud and tender. "They mean a lot to me."

You nod, and he settles into sketching, chatting with you while doing quick, 7 minute exercise. Each time his watch beeps, he rips the paper of the pad, precisely stacking the completed sketches face down before he resets the timer.

About halfway through, he takes his heavy glasses off and discards them carelessly--or as careless as this careful man could possibly be--and the wood and glass coffee table at his side. They fall next to a carefully painted model of a Humvee type vehicle that looks straight out of a World War II movie.

Looking at his handsome face, no longer half hidden behind the thick frames he had worn the other day, a pang of realization hits you.

His face, the pictures, they blur together in a moment of red, white, and blue, and you flash back to the war bonds propaganda videos you watched back in a high school history class.

"No way." You blurt it out before you can stop yourself. Steve diverts his attention from drawing what was going to be a 30 minute portrait.

He blinks, and you notice the slightest streak of terror pass through his eyes. "What?" He smiles, that warm, crooked grin, trying to cover the look of fear.

"Steve. Like...Steve Rogers?" Again, speaking without thinking.

His smile falters before his face falls softly into a sheepish frown. He sighs and nods his head almost imperceptibly.

"Captain America?" You say in disbelief. "Cap is drawing me?"

His lips twist before creeping into a slight smile. "I really do prefer 'Steve.'"

You turn redder than you've ever been in front of Steve, and once again mutter "no way."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you?" He offers, although he doesn't sound convinced by that.

You pause for a moment before shaking your head. "I...I don't care. It's your business, not mine. I-I'm sorry for blurting it out."

"Glad you didn't realize in the coffee shop yesterday." He releases a full-fledged, toothy smile, and you wonder if that sardonic barb is something he's picked up from Tony Stark.

He sits back in his chair, the fear gone from his expression, and sighs, as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He takes a contented moment before he speaks. "I think these are all the sketches we're going to get done today." He begins to neaten his already precise pile of drawings.

You feel your heart dip in disappointment. "W-wait..." You want desperately to spend more time with him, but not because he's some famous superhero.

He hands you the sketch he was working on before you blurted his not-so-secret identity out loud. It's not quite finished, but it's shockingly beautiful. You trace the line of your nose, the flow of your hair, the imperfections captured and made stunning by Steve's pencil.

"Is this really how I look?"

That creeping smile spreads over his face again. "Yeah. To me." There's an electric pause between the two of you before Steve stands, offering you his hand, and speaks again. "Could I draw you again sometime?"

You take his hand, bolstered by his flattery, and rise, standing on your toes to plant a gentle kiss on Steve's lips. He seems surprised and somewhat shy initially, but softly cups your hand in his and tentatively kisses you back. It's chaste and short lived, but you feel both your hearts speed up, his almost unnoticed over the heavy beating of your own.

"Any time." You say, smirking just slightly before you waltz to the door.


End file.
